For many dark years, you could not open the cupboard, or the box in the safe. To leaf through the first few photographs would be enough to send you over the edge, to sit on the floor with them spread around you and cry like a lost child. But that was then. Taken from the cupboard you now have your lost life pinned up where you can see them all, celebrate them all. There is still grief, but it is manageable.
The box took longer, is still taking longer. The words in the first few letters become unreadable through ceaseless tears.
For a long time the temptation to simply tip the lot into a pile and burn them has been there, and that is what should happen, period. You find that you cannot, but have made yourself a promise – before their immolation as a payment to hopefully halt your grief, you must read each of them just one last time.
Warning: These stories contains adult subject matter, explicit scenes of an intimate sexual nature, and language, that some readers may find challenging and/or offensive. They are also not suitable for minors. You have been warned.
The stories presented above are works of fiction. Any resemblance between characters in the stories, and real persons, either living or dead, is purely coincidental.